The next few weeks felt different. So starkly different. I met with Peter and ended things. He asked a lot of questions, wanted to know why I’d suddenly changed my mind about us, and I couldn’t give him a real answer. I couldn’t tell him about Noah. Because, one, we weren’t really together. And two, I couldn’t let anyone know what we were doing. Still, I knew it was best to end it.
I felt awful about Peter. And even if Noah and I never became… whatever it is we’re becoming, I still would’ve ended it.
Then our routine changed. Drastically. Or maybe… not so drastically.
I still made breakfast. Noah still slept in his room, and I still slept in mine. William still raced down the stairs for food and his packed lunch. Some mornings, Noah would sit at the table to eat. Other times, he’d grab
